UC-NRLF 


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Imlm, 

, 

A       \ 

\ 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

William  Nauns  Ricks 


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Copyright,  1897,  an*  1898,  h? 
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//^ 


a  WMt  of  Contmte 

i  pilgrims  of  t&e  ^>>ea  ********  t 

it  aaawtbet  leounD?  f  f  ♦  ff  $%f$  9 

iii  C&e  fatten  of  3x3ork********t3 
pleasure  ♦♦^♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦# l5 

cKBealtfr  *****************$ 
jfamef  ♦♦♦♦  ft1!1  ♦♦  ♦  $*ff  i\ 
Usefulness**************  27 

to.  Cfie  fatten  of  Character  ♦  *f  ♦♦  30 
Cfie  jforce  of  tfte  31&eal  ******  3 1 
Powerful  Dap^Dreams  ♦♦♦♦♦33 
Cbe  Ctoo  patfts  ********** 3* 
Christian  Consummation  ♦♦♦♦  35 

»♦  Cbe  last  port***********37 
C6e  §)trengtf)  of  223isftes  $$#$  39 
C6e  Passion  of  3|mmortalitg  **  40 


58p||mrp?aanBpfee 

I.  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SEA.f  «f«# 

OF  all  the  things  that  man  has  made, 
none  is  so  full  of  interest  and  charm, 
none  possesses  so  distinct  a  life  and 
character  of  its  own,  as  a  ship. 
"Ships  are  but  boards,"  says  Shylock  in  "The 
Merchant  of  Venice."  But  we  feel  that  this  is 
a  thoroughly  wooden  opinion,  one  of  those 
literal  judgments  which  stick  to  the  facts 
and  miss  the  truth.  Ships  have  something 
more  in  them  than  the  timbers  of  which  they 
are  made.  Human  thought  and  human  labor 
and  human  love,— the  designer's  clever  con- 
ception, the  builder's  patient  toil,  the  explor- 
er's daring  venture,  the  merchant's  costly 
enterprise,  the  sailor's  loyal  affection,  the 
traveller's  hopes  and  fears,  — all  the  manifold 
sympathies  of  humanity,  inform  the  dumb  pil- 
grims of  the  sea  with  a  human  quality.  There 
is  a  spirit  within  their  oaken  ribs,  a  signifi- 
cance in  their  strange  histories. 
The  common  language  in  which  we  speak  of 
them  is  an  unconscious  confession  of  this 
feeling.  We  say  of  a  ship,  "She  sails  well. 
She  minds  her  helm  quickly.  The  wind  is 
against  her,  but  she  makes  good  headway. 
We  wish  her  a  prosperous  voyage."  We  en- 
dow her  with  personality;  and,  as  if  to  ac- 
knowledge the  full  measure  of  our  interest, 

i 

701 


g)f)ip0  an*  batons 

we  express  it  in  terms  which  belong  to  the 
more  interesting  sex. 

One  reason  for  this  is  undoubtedly  the  fact 
that  the  ship  appears  to  us  as  a  traveller  to 
an  unseen,  and  often  an  unknown,  haven.  It 
is  the  element  of  mystery,  of  adventure,  of 
movement  towards  a  secret  goal,  that  fasci- 
nates our  imagination,  and  draws  our  sympa- 
thy after  it.  When  this  is  wanting,  the  ship 
loses  something  of  her  enchantment. 
There  is  a  little  cottage  where  I  have  spent 
many  summers  on  the  sleepy  southern  shore 
of  Long  Island.  From  the  white  porch  we 
could  look  out  upon  a  shallow,  land-locked 
bay.  There  we  saw,  on  every  sunny  day,  a 
score  of  sailboats,  flickering  to  and  fro  on  the 
bright  circle  of  water  in  swallow-flights,  with 
no  aim  but  their  own  motion  in  the  pleasant 
breeze.  It  was  a  flock  of  little  play-ships,  —a 
pretty  sight,  but  it  brought  no  stir  to  the 
thought,  no  thrill  to  the  emotions. 
From  the  upper  windows  of  the  house  the 
outlook  surpassed  a  long  line  of  ragged  sand- 
dunes,  and  ranged  across 
The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea. 
There  went  the  real  ships,  of  all  shapes  and 
sizes,  of  all  rigs  and  models;  the  great  steam- 
ers, building  an  airy  pillar  of  cloud  by  day,  a 
flashing  pillar  of  fire  by  night;  the  ragged 
coasters,  with  their  patched  and  dingy  sails; 
the  slim,  swift  yachts,  hurrying  by  in  gala 
dress,  as  if  in  haste  to  arrive  at  some  distant, 
2 


$Ugrim0  of  tije  g>ea 

merry  festival  of  Neptune's  court.  Sometimes 
they  passed  in  groups,  like  flights  of  plover; 
sometimes  in  single  file,  like  a  flock  of  wild 
swans;  sometimes  separate  and  lonely,  one 
appearing  and  vanishing  before  the  next  hove 
in  sight. 

When  thewind  was  from  the  north  they  hugged 
the  shore.  With  a  glass  one  could  see  the 
wrinkled,  weather-beaten  face  of  the  man  at  the 
wheel,  and  the  short  pipe  smoking  between 
his  lips.  When  the  wind  was  southerly  and 
strong  they  kept  far  away,  creeping  slowly 
along  the  rim  of  the  horizon.  On  a  fair  breeze 
they  dashed  along,  wing  and  wing,  with  easy, 
level  motion.  When  the  wind  was  contrary 
they  came  beating  in  and  out,  close-hauled, 
tossing  and  laboring  over  the  waves.  It  was 
a  vision  of  endless  variety  and  delight.  But 
behind  it  all,  giving  life  and  interest  to  the 
scene,  was  the  invisible  thought  of  the  desired 
haven. 

Whither  is  she  travelling,  that  long,  four- 
masted  schooner,  with  all  her  sails  set  to 
catch  the  fickle  northwest  breeze?  Is  it  in 
some  languid  bay  of  the  West  Indies,  or  in 
some  rocky  harbor  of  Patagonia,  amid  the 
rigors  of  the  far  southern  winter,  that  she  will 
cast  anchor?  Where  is  she  bound,  that  dark 
little  tramp-steamer,  trailing  voluminous  black 
smoke  behind  her,  and  buffeting  her  way  to 
the  eastward  in  the  teeth  of  the  rising  gale? 
Is  it  in  some  sunlit  port  among  the  bare  pur- 

3 


>!np0  auto  ^abeu0 

pie  hills  of  Spain,  or  in  the  cool  shadows  of 
some  forest-clad  Norwegian  fiord,  that  she 
will  find  her  moorings?  Whither  away,  ye 
ships?  What  haven  ? 

How  often,  and  how  exquisitely,  this  question 
of  ships  and  havens  has  been  expressed  by 
the  poets  (in  prose  and  verse),  who  translate 
our  thoughts  for  us.  Longfellow  recalls  a  dream 
of  his  childhood  in  the  seaport  town  of  Port- 
land:— 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 
And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 
And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts." 

George  William  Curtis  wanders  down  to  the 
Battery,  and  meditates  on  "Sea  from  Shore": 
"The  sails  were  shaken  out,  and  the  ship  be- 
gan to  move.  It  was  a  fair  breeze  perhaps,  and 
no  steamer  was  needed  to  tow  her  away.  She 
receded  down  the  bay.  Friends  turned  back, — 
I  could  not  see  them, — and  waved  their  hands, 
and  wiped  their  eyes,  and  went  home  to  din- 
ner. Farther  and  farther  from  the  ships  at  an- 
chor, the  lessening  vessel  became  single  and 
solitary  upon  the  water.  The  sun  sank  in  the 
west;  but  I  watched  her  still.  Every  flash  of 
4 


pigrim0  of  $e  g>ea 

her  sails,  as  she  tacked  and  turned,  thrilled 
my  heart.  ...  I  did  not  know  the  consignees 
nor  the  name  of  the  vessel.  I  had  shipped  no 
adventure,  nor  risked  any  insurance,  nor  made 
any  bet,  but  my  eyes  clung  to  her  as  Ariadne's 
to  the  fading  sail  of  Theseus." 
And  here  is  a  bit  of  Rudyard  Kipling's  gusty 
music  from  "The  Seven  Seas":— 
The  Liner  she 's  a  lady,  an'  she  never  looks 
nor  'eeds— 

The  Man-'o-War's  'er  'usband,  an'  'e  gives  'er 
all  she  needs; 

But,  oh,  the  little  cargo-boats,  that  sail  the 
wet  seas  roun', 

They're  just  the  same  as  you  and  me,  a-plyin' 
up  an'  down! 

But  it  is  Wordsworth,  the  most  intimate  and 
searching  interpreter  of  delicate,  half-formed 
emotions,  who  has  given  the  best  expression 
to  the  feeling  that  rises  within  us  at  sight  of 
a  journeying  ship  :— 

With  ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh 
Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed; 
Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road, 
Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  why. 
A  goodly  Vessel  did  I  then  espy 
Come  like  a  giant  from  a  haven  broad; 
And  lustily  along  the  bay  she  strode, 
Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high. 
This  Ship  was  naught  to  me,  nor  I  to  her, 
Yet  I  pursued  her  with  a  Lover's  look; 
This  Ship  to  all  the  rest  I  did  prefer: 

5 


g>irip0  an*  Havens 

When  will  she  turn,  and  whither?  She  will  brook 

No  tarrying :  where  she  comes  the  winds  must 

stir; 

On  went  she,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 

Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must 

go? 

Fresh  as  a  lark  mounting  at  break  of  day 

Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array; 

Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow? 

What  boots  the  inquiry?— -Neither  friend  nor 

foe 

She  cares  for;  let  her  travel  where  she  may 

She  finds  familiar  friends,  a  beaten  way 

Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 

Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark? 

And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare, 

(From  time  to  time,  like  Pilgrims,  here  and 

there 

Crossing  the  waters),  doubt,  and  something 

dark, 

Of  the  old  Sea  some  reverential  fear 

Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  Bark! 

And  is  not  this  a  parable,  beautiful  and  sug- 
gestive, of  the  way  in  which  we  look  out,  in 
our  thoughtful  moods,  upon  the  ocean  of  hu- 
man life,  and  the  men  and  women  who  are 
voyaging  upon  it?  In  them  also  the  deepest 
element  of  interest  is  that  they  are  in  motion. 
They  are  all  going  somewhither.  They  are  not 
stationary  objects  in  our  view.  They  are  not 
6 


plgrima  of  tyt  g>ea 

even,  in  this  aspect,  parts  of  the  great  tide  of 
being  in  which  they  float.  They  are  distinct, 
individual,  separate.  We  single  them  out  one 
by  one.  Each  one  is  a  voyager,  with  a  port  to 
seek,  a  course  to  run,  a  fortune  to  experience. 
The  most  interesting  question  that  we  can 
ask  in  regard  to  them  is :  Whither  bound? 
What  haven  ? 

But  this  inquiry  comes  to  us  now  not  as  an 
idle  or  a  curious  question.  For,  first  of  all,  we 
feel  that  these  men  and  women  are  not  stran- 
gers to  us.  We  know  why  we  take  a  personal 
interest  in  one  more  than  in  another.  We 
know  why  we  "pursue  them  with  a  lover's 
look."  It  is  as  if  the  "joyous  Bark"  carried 
some  one  that  we  knew,  as  if  we  could  see  a 
familiar  face  above  the  bulwarks,  and  hear  a 
well-beloved  voice  hailing  us  across  the  waves. 
And  then  we  realize  that  we  also  are  en  voy- 
age. We  do  not  stand  on  the  shore  as  specta- 
tors; we,  too,  are  out  on  the  ocean,  sailing. 
All  the  "reverential  fear  of  the  old  Sea,"  the 
peril,  the  mystery,  the  charm,  of  the  voyage, 
come  home  to  our  own  experience.  The  ques- 
tion becomes  pressing,  urgent,  importunate, 
as  we  enter  into  the  depth  of  its  meaning. 
Surely  there  is  nothing  that  we  can  ever  ask 
ourselves  in  which  we  have  a  closer,  deeper 
interest,  or  to  which  we  need  to  find  a  clearer, 
truer  answer,  than  this  simple,  direct  ques- 
tion: What  is  our  desired  haven  in  the  ven- 
turesome voyage  of  life? 


tnp  an*  Hat)en0 

II.  WHITHER   BOUND?  ffffffff 

Xwant  to  talk  with  you  about  this  ques- 
tion in  this  little  book,  as  a  writer  may 
talk  with  a  reader  across  the  unknown 
intervals  of  time  and  space.  The  book  that 
does  not  really  speak  to  you  is  not  worth  much. 
And  unless  you  really  hear  something,  and 
make  some  kind  of  an  answer  to  it,  you  do 
not  truly  read. 

There  is  a  disadvantage,  of  course,  in  the  fact 
that  you  and  I  do  not  know  each  other  and 
speak  face  to  face.  Who  you  are,  into  whose 
hands  this  book  has  come,  I  cannot  tell.  And 
to  you,  I  am  nothing  but  a  name.  Where  you 
may  be,  while  you  turn  these  pages,  I  cannot 
guess.  Perhaps  you  are  sitting  in  your  own 
quiet  room  after  a  hard  day's  work ;  perhaps 
you  are  reading  aloud  in  some  circle  of  friends 
around  the  open  fire;  perhaps  you  are  in  the 
quiet  woods,  or  out  in  the  pleasant  orchard 
under  your  favorite  tree ;  perhaps  you  are  ac- 
tually on  the  deck  of  a  ship  travelling  across 
the  waters.  It  is  strange  and  wonderful  to 
think  of  the  many  different  places  into  which 
the  words  that  I  am  now  writing  in  this  lonely, 
book-lined  study  may  come,  and  of  the  many 
different  eyes  that  may  read  them. 
But  wherever  you  are,  and  whoever  you  may 
be,  there  is  one  thing  in  which  you  and  I  are 
just  alike,  at  this  moment,  and  in  all  the  mo- 
ments of  our  existence.  We  are  not  at  rest; 
8 


Winder  SounfetW 

we  are  on  a  journey.  Our  life  is  not  a  mere 
fact;  it  is  a  movement,  a  tendency,  a  steady, 
ceaseless  progress  towards  an  unseen  goal. 
We  are  gaining  something,  or  losing  some- 
thing, every  day.  Even  when  our  position  and 
our  character  seem  to  remain  precisely  the 
same,  they  are  changing.  For  the  mere  ad- 
vance of  time  is  a  change.  It  is  not  the  same 
thing  to  have  a  bare  field  in  January  and  in 
July.  The  season  makes  the  difference.  The 
limitations  that  are  childlike  in  the  child  are 
childish  in  the  man. 

Everything  that  we  do  is  a  step  in  one  direc- 
tion or  another.  Even  the  failure  to  do  some- 
thing is  in  itself  a  deed.  It  sets  us  forward  or 
backward.  The  action  of  the  negative  pole  of 
a  magnetic  needle  is  just  as  real  as  the  action 
of  the  positive  pole.  To  decline  is  to  accept — 
the  other  alternative. 

Are  you  richer  to-day  than  you  were  yester- 
day? No?  Then  you  are  a  little  poorer.  Are 
you  better  to-day  than  you  were  yesterday? 
No?  Then  you  are  a  little  worse.  Are  you 
nearer  to  your  port  to-day  than  you  were  yes- 
terday? Yes,— you  must  be  a  little  nearer  to 
some  port  or  other ;  for  since  your  ship  was 
first  launched  upon  the  sea  of  life,  you  have 
never  been  still  for  a  single  moment;  the  sea 
is  too  deep,  you  could  not  find  an  anchorage  if 
you  would ;  there  can  be  no  pause  until  you 
come  into  port. 

But  what  is  it,  then,  the  haven  towards  which 

9 


§>|njp0  anir  Havens 

you  are  making?  What  is  the  goal  that  you  de- 
sire and  hope  to  reach?  What  is  the  end  of  life 
towards  which  you  are  drifting  or  steering? 
There  are  three  ways  in  which  we  may  look  at 
this  question,  depending  upon  the  point  of  view 
from  which  we  regard  human  existence. 
When  we  think  of  it  as  a  work,  the  question 
is,  "What  do  we  desire  to  accomplish?" 
When  we  think  of  it  as  a  growth,  a  develop- 
ment, a  personal  unfolding,  the  question  is, 
"What  do  we  desire  to  become?" 
When  we  think  of  it  as  an  experience,  a  de- 
stiny, the  question  is,  "What  do  we  desire  to 
become  of  us?" 

Do  not  imagine  for  an  instant  that  these  ques- 
tions can  be  really  separated.  They  are  inter- 
woven. They  cross  each  other  from  end  to  end 
of  the  web  of  life.  The  answer  to  one  question 
determines  the  answer  to  the  others.  We  can- 
not divide  our  work  from  ourselves,  nor  isolate 
our  future  from  our  qualities.  A  ship  might  as 
well  try  to  sail  north  with  her  jib,  and  east  with 
her  foresail,  and  south  with  her  mainsail,  as  a 
man  to  go  one  way  in  conduct,  and  another  way 
in  character,  and  another  way  in  destiny. 
What  we  do  belongs  to  what  we  are;  and  what 
we  are  is  what  becomes  of  us. 
And  yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  a  differ- 
ence in  these  three  standpoints  from  which 
we  may  look  at  our  life;  and  this  difference 
not  only  makes  a  little  variation  in  the  view 
that  we  take  of  our  existence,  but  also  influ- 
10 


WiHtijer  asounfc  tff 

ences  unconsciously  our  manner  of  thinking 
and  speaking  about  it.  Most  of  the  misunder- 
standings that  arise  when  we  are  talking  about 
life  come  from  a  failure  to  remember  this.  We 
are  looking  at  the  same  thing,  but  we  are  look- 
ing from  opposite  corners  of  the  room.  We  are 
discussing  the  same  subject,  but  in  different 
dialects. 

Some  people—perhaps  the  majority— are  of 
a  practical  turn  of  mind.  Life  seems  to  them 
principally  an  affair  of  definite  labor  directed 
to  certain  positive  results.  They  are  usually 
thinking  about  what  they  are  to  do  in  the 
world,  and  what  they  are  to  get  for  it.  It  is  a 
question  of  occupation,  of  accomplishment,  of 
work  and  wages. 

Other  people— and  I  think  almost  all  serious- 
minded  people  when  they  are  young,  and  life 
still  appears  fresh  and  wonderful  to  them — 
regard  their  existence  from  the  standpoint  of 
sentiment,  of  feeling,  of  personality.  They  have 
their  favorite  characters  in  history  or  fiction, 
whom  they  admire  and  try  to  imitate.  They 
have  their  ideals,  which  they  seek  and  hope  to 
realize.  Some  vision  of  triumph  over  obstacles, 
and  victory  over  enemies,  some  model  of  man- 
hood or  womanhood,  shines  before  them.  By 
that  standard  they  test  and  measure  them- 
selves. Towards  that  end  they  direct  their  ef- 
forts. The  question  of  life,  for  them,  is  a  ques- 
tion of  attainment,  of  self-discipline,  of  self- 
development. 

II 


g)|)ip0  an*  J|aton0 

Other  people — and  I  suppose  we  may  say  all 
people  at  some  time  or  other  in  their  expe- 
rience— catch  a  glimpse  of  life  in  still  wider 
and  more  mysterious  relations.  They  see  that 
it  is  not  really,  for  any  one  of  us,  an  independent 
and  self-centred  and  self-controlled  affair.  They 
feel  that  its  issues  run  out  far  beyond  what  we 
can  see  in  this  world.  They  have  a  deep  sense 
of  a  future  state  of  being  towards  which  we  are 
all  inevitably  moving.  This  movement  cannot 
be  a  matter  of  chance.  It  must  be  under  law, 
under  responsibility,  under  guidance.  It  cannot 
be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  us.  It  ought  to 
be  the  object  of  our  most  earnest  concern,  our 
most  careful  choice,  our  most  determined  en- 
deavor. If  there  is  a  port  beyond  the  horizon, 
we  should  know  where  it  lies  and  how  to  win 
it.  And  so  the  question  of  life,  in  these  profound 
moods  which  come  to  all  of  us,  presents  itself 
as  a  question  of  eternal  destiny. 
Now,  if  we  are  to  understand  each  other,  if  we 
are  to  get  a  view  of  the  subject  which  shall  be 
anything  like  a  well-rounded  view,  a  complete 
view,  we  must  look  at  the  question  from  all 
three  sides.  We  must  ask  ourselves:  What  is 
our  desired  haven,  first,  in  achievement;  and 
second,  in  character;  and  last,  in  destiny? 


12 


III.  THE  HAVEN  OF  WORK. ###### 
/^"^(  URELY  we  ought  to  know  what  it  is 
Wl^j  that  we  really  want  to  do  in  the  world, 
«K— ^  what  practical  result  we  desire  to  ac- 
complish with  our  lives.  And  this  is  a  question 
which  it  will  be  very  wise  to  ask  and  answer 
before  we  determine  what  particular  means 
we  shall  use  in  order  to  perform  our  chosen 
work  and  to  secure  the  desired  result.  A  man 
ought  to  know  what  he  proposes  to  make  be- 
fore he  selects  and  prepares  his  tools.  A  cap- 
tain should  have  a  clear  idea  of  what  port  he 
is  to  reach  before  he  attempts  to  lay  his  course 
and  determine  his  manner  of  sailing. 
All  these  minor  questions  of  ways  and  means 
must  come  afterwards.  They  cannot  be  settled 
at  the  outset.  They  depend  on  circumstances. 
They  change  with  the  seasons.  There  are  many 
paths  to  the  same  end.  One  may  be  best  to- 
day; another  may  be  best  to-morrow.  The  wind 
and  the  tide  make  a  difference.  One  way  may 
be  best  for  you,  another  way  for  me.  The  build 
of  the  ship  must  be  taken  into  consideration. 
A  flat-bottomed  craft  does  best  in  the  shallow 
water,  along  shore.  A  deep  keel  is  for  the  open 
sea. 

But  before  we  make  up  our  minds  how  to  steer 
from  day  to  day,  we  must  know  where  we  are 
going  in  the  long  run.  Then  we  can  shape  our 
course  to  fit  our  purpose.  We  can  learn  how 
to  meet  emergencies  as  they  arise.  We  can 

13 


g>!np0  an*  Hatona 

change  our  direction  to  avoid  obstacles  and 
dangers.  We  can  take  a  roundabout  way  if 
need  be.  If  we  keep  the  thought  of  our  desired 
haven  clearly  before  us,  all  the  other  points 
can  be  more  easily  and  wisely  settled;  and 
however  devious  and  difficult  the  voyage  may 
be,  it  will  be  a  success  when  we  get  there. 
I  am  quite  sure  that  a  great  deal  of  the  confu- 
sion and  perplexity  of  youth,  and  a  great  deal 
of  the  restlessness  and  fickleness  which  older 
people  often  criticise  so  severely  and  so  un- 
justly, come  from  the  attempt  to  choose  an 
occupation  in  life  before  the  greater  question 
of  the  real  object  of  our  life-work  has  been 
fairly  faced  and  settled.  "What  are  you  going 
to  do  when  you  grow  up  ?"  This  is  the  favorite 
conundrum  which  the  kind  aunts  and  uncles 
put  to  the  boys  when  they  come  home  from 
school;  and  of  late  they  are  beginning  to  put 
it  to  the  girls  also,  since  it  has  been  reluc- 
tantly admitted  that  a  girl  may  rightly  have 
something  to  say  about  what  she  would  like 
to  do  in  the  world.  But  how  is  it  possible  to 
make  anything  more  than  a  blind  guess  at  the 
answer,  unless  the  boy  or  the  girl  has  some 
idea  of  the  practical  end  which  is  to  be  worked 
for.  To  choose  a  trade,  a  business,  a  profession, 
without  knowing  what  kind  of  a  result  you 
want  to  get  out  of  your  labor,  is  to  set  sail  in 
the  dark.  It  is  to  have  a  course,  but  no  haven; 
an  employment,  but  no  vocation. 
There  are  really  only  four  great  practical  ends 
14 


for  which  men  and  women  can  work  in  this 
world, — Pleasure,  Wealth,  Fame,  and  Useful- 
ness. We  owe  it  to  ourselves  to  consider  them 
carefully,  and  to  make  up  our  minds  which  of 
them  is  to  be  our  chief  object  in  life. 
Pleasure  is  one  aim  in  life,  and  there  are  a 
great  many  people  who  are  following  it,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  as  the  main  end  of 
all  their  efforts.  Now,  pleasure  is  a  word  which 
has  a  double  meaning.  It  may  mean  the  satis- 
faction of  all  the  normal  desires  of  our  man- 
hood in  their  due  proportion,  and  in  this  sense 
it  is  a  high  and  noble  end.  There  is  a  pleasure 
in  the  intelligent  exercise  of  all  our  faculties, 
in  the  friendship  of  nature,  in  the  perception 
of  truth,  in  the  generosity  of  love,  in  the  achieve- 
ments of  heroism,  in  the  deeds  of  beneficence, 
in  the  triumphs  of  self-sacrifice.  "It  is  not  to 
taste  sweet  things,"  says  Carlyle,  "but  to  do 
true  and  noble  things,  and  vindicate  himself 
under  God's  Heaven  as  a  God-made  man,  that 
the  poorest  son  of  Adam  dimly  longs.  Show  him 
the  way  of  doing  that,  the  dullest  day-drudge 
kindles  into  a  hero." 

But  pleasure  as  we  commonly  speak  of  itmeans 
something  very  different  from  this.  It  denotes 
the  immediate  gratification  of  our  physical 
senses  and  appetites  and  inclinations.  There 
is  a  free  gift  of  pleasant  sensation  attached  by 
the  Creator  to  the  fulfilment  of  our  natural 
propensions.  The  taking  of  food,  for  example, 
not  only  nourishes  the  body,  but  also  gratifies 

15 


g>jnp0  anti  Ha*ett0 

the  palate;  the  quenching  of  thirst  is  agree- 
able to  the  senses  as  well  as  necessary  to  the 
maintenance  of  life.  No  sane  and  wholesome 
thinker  has  ventured  to  deny  that  it  is  lawful 
and  wise  to  receive  this  gratuitous  gift  of 
pleasure,  and  rejoice  in  it,  as  it  comes  to  us 
in  this  world  wherein  God  has  caused  to  grow 
"  every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the  sight  and 
good  for  food."  But  when  we  make  the  recep- 
tion of  the  agreeable  sensation  the  chief  end 
and  motive  of  our  action,  when  we  direct  our 
will  and  our  effort  to  the  attainment  of  this 
end,  then  we  enter  upon  a  pleasure-seeking 
life.  We  make  that  which  should  be  our  ser- 
vant to  refresh  and  cheer  us,  our  master  to 
direct  and  rule  and  drive  us. 
The  evil  nature  of  this  transformation  is  sug- 
gested in  the  very  names  which  we  give  to 
human  conduct  in  which  the  gratification  of 
the  senses  has  become  the  controlling  purpose. 
The  man  who  lives  for  the  sake  of  the  enjoy- 
ment that  he  gets  out  of  eating  and  drinking 
is  a  glutton  or  a  drunkard.  The  man  who  mea- 
sures the  success  and  happiness  of  his  life  by 
its  physical  sensations,  whether  they  be  coarse 
and  brutal  or  delicate  and  refined,  is  a  volup- 
tuary. 

A  pleasure-seeking  life,  in  this  sense,  when  we 
think  of  it  clearly  and  carefully,  is  one  which 
has  no  real  end  or  goal  outside  of  itself.  Its 
aim  is  unreal  and  transitory,  a  passing  thrill 
in  nerves  that  decay,  an  experience  that  leads 
16 


nowhere,  and  leaves  nothing  behind  it.  Robert 
Burns  knew  the  truth  of  what  he  wrote: — 
But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  the  bloom  is  shed! 
The  man  who  chooses  pleasure  as  the  object 
of  his  life  has  no  real  haven,  but  is  like  a  boat 
that  beats  up  and  down  and  drifts  to  and  fro, 
merely  to  feel  the  motion  of  the  waves  and  the 
impulse  of  the  wind.  When  the  voyage  of  life 
is  done  he  has  reached  no  port,  he  has  accom- 
plished nothing. 

One  of  the  wisest  of  the  ancients,  the  Stoic 
philosopher  Seneca,  wrote  a  letter  to  his  bro- 
ther Gallio  (the  Roman  governor  before  whom 
St.  Paul  was  tried  in  Corinth),  in  which  he 
speaks  very  frankly  about  the  folly  of  a  volup- 
tuous life.  "  Those  who  have  permitted  plea- 
sure to  lead  the  van  .  . .  lose  virtue  altogether; 
and  yet  they  do  not  possess  pleasure,  but  are 
possessed  by  it,  and  are  either  tortured  by  its 
absence,  or  choked  by  its  excess,  being  wretched 
if  deserted  by  it,  and  yet  more  wretched  if  over- 
whelmed by  it ;  like  those  who  are  caught  in 
the  shoals  of  the  Syrtes,  and  at  one  time  are 
stranded  on  dry  ground,  and  at  another  tossed 
on  the  furious  billows.  ...  As  we  hunt  wild 
beasts  with  toil  and  peril,  and  even  when  they 
are  caught  find  them  an  anxious  possession, 
for  they  often  tear  their  keepers  to  pieces,  even 
so  are  great  pleasures;  they  turn  out  to  be 
great  evils,  and  take  their  owners  prisoner." 
This  is  the  voice  of  human  prudence  and  phi- 

17 


g>|np0  an*  batons 

losophy.  The  voiceof  religion  is  even  more  clear 
and  piercing.  St.  Paul  says  of  the  pleasure » 
seekers:  "Whose  end  is  destruction,  whose 
god  is  their  belly,  whose  glory  is  their  shame, 
who  mind  earthly  things."  And  in  another  place, 
lest  we  should  forget  that  this  is  as  true  of 
women  as  it  is  of  men,  he  says:  "She  that  liv- 
eth  in  pleasure  is  dead  while  she  liveth."  That 
saying  is  profoundly  true.  It  goes  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  subject.  A  pleasure-seeking  life  is 
a  living  death,  because  its  object  perishes  even 
while  it  is  attained,  and  at  the  end  nothing  is 
left  of  it  but  dust  and  corruption. 
Think  of  the  result  of  existence  in  the  man  or 
womanwhohaslivedchieflytogratifythephy- 
sical  appetites;  think  of  its  real  emptiness,its 
real  repulsiveness,  when  old  age  comes,  and 
the  senses  are  dulled,and  the  roses  have  faded 
and  the  lamps  at  the  banquet  are  smokingand 
expiring,  and  desire  fails,  and  all  that  remains 
isthefierce,insatiable,uglycravingfordelights 
which  have  fled  forevermore;  think  of  the  bit- 
ter, burning  vacancy  of  such  an  end,— andyou 
must  see  that  pleasure  is  not  a  good  haven  to 
seek  in  the  voyage  of  life. 
But  what  of  wealth  as  a  desired  haven?  When 
we  attempt  to  consider  this  subject  we  have 
especial  need  to  follow  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson's 
blunt  advice  and  "clear  our  minds  of  cant." 
There  is  agreat  deal  of  foolish  railing  against 
wealth,  which  takes  for  granted,  now  that  it 
is  an  unsubstantial  and  illusory  good,andnow 
18 


Wt)t  ffiatotn  of  Work 

that  it  is  not  a  good  atail,butonlyan  unmixed 
evil,  and  the  root  of  all  other  evils.  Many 
preachers  and  moralists  talk  about  wealth  in 
this  way,  but  they  do  not  really  think  about  it 
inthisway.Theyknowbetter.Andwhenyoung 
people  discoverandobservethecuriousincon- 
sistency  between  the  teacher's  words  and  his 
thoughts,  as  illuminated  by  his  conduct,  they 
are  likely  to  experience  a  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment, and  a  serious  revulsion  from  doctrine 
which  does  not  seem  to  be  sincere. 
Wealth  is  simply  the  visible  result  of  human 
labor,  or  of  the  utilization  of  natural  forces 
and  products,  in  such  a  form  that  it  can  be 
exchanged.  A  gallon  of  water  in  a  mountain 
lake  is  not  wealth.  But  the  same  gallon  of 
water  conveyed  through  an  aqueduct  and  de- 
livered in  the  heart  of  a  great  city  represents 
a  certain  amount  of  wealth,  because  it  has  a 
value  in  relation  to  the  wants  of  men.  A  tree 
growing  in  an  inaccessible  forest  is  not  wealth. 
But  a  stick  of  timber  which  can  be  delivered 
in  a  place  where  men  are  building  houses  is  a 
bit  of  wealth. 

Now,  the  symbol  and  measure  of  wealth  is 
money.  It  is  the  common  standard  by  which  the 
value  of  different  commodities  is  estimated,  and 
the  means  by  which  they  are  exchanged.  It 
is  not  a  dream  nor  a  delusion.  It  is  something 
real  and  solid.  It  is  deserving  of  our  respect 
under  certain  conditions  and  within  certain 
limitations.  The  man  who  professes  an  abso- 

19 


g>l)ip0  an*  Ha*en0 

lute  contempt  for  money  is  either  a  little  of  a 
fool  or  a  good  deal  of  a  fraud.  It  represents  a 
product  of  labor  and  a  form  of  power.  It  is 
worth  working  for.  When  a  man  has  won  it, 
there  it  is — a  fact  and  a  force.  He  can  handle 
it,  use  it,  dispose  of  it,  as  he  chooses. 
But  stop  a  moment ;  let  us  think !  Is  that  alto- 
gether true?  It  is  partly  true,  no  doubt;  for 
every  particle  of  wealth,  or  of  its  symbol, 
money,  is  an  actual  possession  of  which  its 
owner  can  dispose.  But  it  is  not  the  whole 
truth;  for  the  fact  is  that  he  must  dispose  of 
it,  because  that  is  the  only  way  in  which  it  be- 
comes available  as  wealth.  A  piece  of  money 
in  an  old  stocking  is  no  more  than  a  leaf  upon 
a  tree.  It  is  only  when  the  coin  is  taken  out 
and  used  that  it  becomes  of  value.  And  the 
nature  of  the  value  depends  upon  the  quality 
of  the  use. 

Moreover,  it  is  not  true  that  a  man  can  dispose 
of  his  money  as  he  chooses.  The  purposes  for 
which  it  can  be  used  are  strictly  bounded. 
There  are  many  things  that  he  cannot  buy 
with  it;  for  example,  health,  long  life,  wisdom, 
a  cheerful  spirit,  a  clear  conscience,  peace  of 
mind,  a  contented  heart. 
You  never  see  the  stock  called  Happiness 
quoted  on  the  exchange.  How  high  would  it 
range,  think  you,— a  hundred  shares  of  Hap- 
piness Preferred,  guaranteed  seven  per  cent, 
seller  thirty  ? 

And  there  are  some  things  that  a  man  cannot 
20 


Wift  flatora  of  Worfe 

do  with  his  wealth.  For  instance,  he  cannot 
carry  it  with  him  when  he  dies.  No  system  of 
transfer  has  been  established  between  the  two 
worlds;  and  a  large  balance  here  does  not  mean 
a  balance  on  the  other  side  of  the  grave.  The 
property  of  Dives  did  not  fall  in  value  when 
he  died,  and  yet  he  became  a  pauper  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye. 

There  is  no  question  but  that  those  who  live 
to  win  wealth  in  this  world  have  a  more  real 
and  substantial  end  in  view  than  the  mere  plea- 
sure-seekers. But  the  thing  that  we  ought  to 
understand  and  remember  is  precisely  what 
that  end  is.  It  is  the  acquisition  in  our  hands  of 
a  certain  thing  whose  possession  is  very  brief, 
and  whose  value  depends  entirely  upon  the  use 
to  which  it  is  put.  Now,  if  we  make  the  mere 
gaining  of  that  thing  the  desired  haven  of  our 
life,  we  certainly  spend  our  strength  for  naught, 
and  our  labor  for  that  which  satisfieth  not.  We 
narrow  and  contract  our  whole  existence.  We 
degrade  it  by  making  it  terminate  upon  some- 
thing which  is  only  a  sign,  a  symbol,  behind 
which  we  see  no  worthy  and  enduring  reality. 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  "blind  vice"  of 
avarice,  as  Juvenal  calls  it,  has  been  particu- 
larly despised  by  the  wise  of  all  lands  and  ages. 
There  is  no  other  fault  that  so  quickly  makes 
the  heart  small  and  hard. 
They  soon  grow  old  who  grope  for  gold 
In  marts  where  all  is  bought  and  sold; 
Who  live  for  self,  and  on  some  shelf 

21 


j)ip0  an*  Havens 

In  darkened  vaults  hoard  up  their  pelf; 
Cankered  and  crusted  o'er  with  mould, 
For  them  their  youth  itself  is  old. 
Nor  is  there  any  other  service  that  appears 
more  unprofitable  and  ridiculous  in  the  end, 
when  the  reward  for  which  the  money-maker 
has  given  his  life  is  stripped  away  from  him 
with  a  single  touch,  and  he  is  left  with  his 
trouble  for  his  pains. 
If  thou  art  rich,  thou'rt  poor; 
For  like  an  ass  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  burden  but  a  journey, 
And  death  unloads  thee.  .   m 

But  perhaps  you  imagine  that  no  one  is  in  dan- 
ger of  making  that  mistake,  no  one  is  so  foolish 
as  to  seek  wealth  merely  for  its  own  sake.  Do 
you  think  so?  Then,  what  shall  we  say  of  that 
large  class  of  men,  so  prominent  and  so  influ- 
ential in  modern  society,  whose  energies  are 
desperately  consecrated  to  thewinning  of  great 
fortunes? 

So  far  as  their  life  speaks  for  them,  they  have 
no  real  ambition  beyond  that.  They  are  not  the 
leaders  in  noble  causes,  the  sustainers  of  be- 
neficent enterprises.  They  have  no  refined  and 
elevated  tastes  to  gratify.  They  are  not  the  pro- 
moters of  art  or  science,  the  adorners  of  their 
city  with  splendid  buildings,  the  supporters  of 
humane  and  beautiful  charities.  They  have  no 
large  plans,  no  high  and  generous  purposes. 
They  have  no  public  spirit,  only  an  intense 
private  greed.  All  that  we  can  say  of  them  is 

22 


that  they  are  rich,  and  that  they  evidently  want 
to  be  richer. 

They  sit  like  gigantic  fowls  brooding  upon  nests 
of  golden  eggs,  which  never  hatch.  Their  one 
desire  is  not  to  bring  anything  out  of  the  eggs, 
but  to  get  more  eggs  into  their  nest.  It  is  a 
form  of  lunacy— auromania. 
But  let  us  not  suppose  that  these  notorious 
examples  are  the  only  ones  who  are  touched 
with  this  insanity.  It  is  just  the  same  in  the 
man  who  is  embittered  by  failure,  as  in  the  man 
who  is  elated  by  success ;  just  the  same  in  those 
who  make  it  the  chief  end  of  life  to  raise  their 
hundreds  of  dollars  to  thousands,  as  in  those 
who  express  their  ambition  in  terms  of  seven 
figures.  Covetousness  is  idolatry  of  wealth.  It 
may  be  paid  to  a  little  idol  as  well  as  to  a  big 
one.  Avarice  may  be  married  to  Poverty,  and 
then  its  offspring  is  named  Envy;  or  it  maybe 
married  to  Riches,  and  then  its  children  are 
called  Purse-pride  and  Meanness.  Some  peo- 
ple sell  their  lives  for  heaps  of  treasure,  and 
some  for  a  scant  thirty  pieces  of  silver,  and 
some  for  nothing  better  than  a  promissory  note 
of  fortune,  without  endorsement. 
There  are  multitudes  of  people  in  the  world 
to-day  who  are  steering  and  sailing  for  Ophir, 
simply  because  it  is  the  land  of  gold.  What 
will  they  do  if  they  reach  their  desired  haven? 
They  do  not  know.  They  do  not  even  ask  the 
question.  They  will  be  rich.  They  will  sit  down 
on  their  gold. 

33 


>!Hjp0  anb  patens 

Let  us  look  our  desires  squarely  in  the  face ! 
To  win  riches,  to  have  a  certain  balance  in  the 
bank,  and  a  certain  rating  on  the  exchange, 
is  a  real  object,  a  definite  object;  but  it  is  a 
frightfully  small  object  for  the  devotion  of  a 
human  life,  and  a  bitterly  disappointing  reward 
for  the  loss  of  an  immortal  soul.  If  wealth  is 
our  desired  haven,  we  may  be  sure  that  it  will 
not  satisfy  us  when  we  reach  it. 
Well,  then,  what  shall  we  say  of  fame  as  the 
chief  end  of  life?  Here,  again,  we  must  be  care- 
ful to  discriminate  between  the  thing  itself  and 
other  things  which  are  often  confused  with  it. 
Fame  is  simply  what  our  fellow-men  think  and 
say  of  us.  It  may  be  world-wide;  it  may  only 
reach  to  a  single  country  or  city;  it  may  be 
confined  to  a  narrow  circle  of  society.  Trans- 
lated in  one  way,  fame  is  glory;  translated  in 
another  way,  it  is  merely  notoriety.  It  is  a  thing 
which  exists,  of  course;  for  the  thoughts  of 
other  people  about  us  are  just  as  actual  as  our 
thoughts  about  ourselves,  or  as  the  character 
and  conduct  with  which  those  thoughts  are 
concerned.  But  the  three  things  do  not  always 
correspond. 

You  remember    what    Dr.    Oliver   Wendell 
Holmes  says,  in  "The  Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fast-Table," about  the  three  Johns:— 
i.  The  real  John ;  known  only  to  his  Maker. 
2.  John's  ideal  John ;  never  the  real  one,  and 
often  very  unlike  him. 


24 


Wt>t%atotn<xW&otk 

3.  Thomas's  ideal  John;  never  the  real  John, 
nor  John's  John,  but  often  very  unlike  either. 
Now,  the  particular  object  of  the  life  that  makes 
fame  its  goal  is  this  last  John.  Its  success  con- 
sists in  the  report  of  other  people's  thoughts 
and  remarks  about  us.  Bare,  naked  fame,  how- 
ever great  it  may  be,  can  never  bring  us  any- 
thing more  than  an  instantaneous  photograph 
of  the  way  we  look  to  other  men. 
Consider  what  it  is  worth.  It  may  be  good  or 
bad,  flattering  or  painfully  truthful.  People  are 
celebrated  sometimes  for  their  vices,  sometimes 
for  their  follies.  Anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
line  will  attract  notice.  Notoriety  may  be  pur- 
chased by  a  colossal  extravagance  or  a  monu- 
mental absurdity.  A  person  has  been  made 
notorious  simply  by  showing  himself  "more 
kinds  of  a  fool"  than  any  one  else  in  the  com- 
munity. 

Many  men  would  be  famous  for  their  vanity 
alone,  if  it  were  not  so  common  that  it  no 
longer  serves  as  a  mark  of  distinction.  We 
often  fancy  that  we  are  occupying  a  large  place 
in  the  attention  of  the  world,  when  really  we 
do  not  even  fill  a  pin-hole. 
To  be  governed  in  our  course  of  life  by  a  tim- 
orous consideration  of  what  the  world  will 
think  of  us,  is  to  be  even  lighter  and  more  fickle 
than  a  weathercock.  It  is  to  be  blown  about  by 
winds  so  small  and  slight  that  they  could  not 
even  lift  a  straw  outside  of  our  own  versatile 


25 


►J)ip0  atrti  Havens 

imagination.  For  what  is  "  the  world,"  for  whose 
admiration,  or  envy,  or  mere  notice,  we  are 
willing  to  give  so  much?  "Mount  up,"  says  a 
wise  man,  "in  a  monomania  of  vanity,  the  num- 
ber of  those  who  bestow  some  passing  thought 
upon  you,  as  high  as  you  dare ;  and  what  is 
this  'world'  but  a  very  few  miserable  items  of 
human  existence,  which,  when  they  disappear, 
none  will  miss,  any  more  than  they  will  miss 
thyself?" 

There  is  one  point  in  which  fame  differs  very 
essentially  from  wealth  and  pleasure.  If  it 
comes  to  us  without  being  well-earned  it  can- 
not possibly  be  enjoyed.  A  pleasure  may  arrive 
by  chance,  and  still  it  will  be  pleasant.  A  sum 
of  money  may  be  won  by  a  gambler,  and  still 
it  is  real  money;  he  can  spend  it  as  he  pleases. 
But  fame  without  a  corresponding  merit  issim- 
ply  an  unmitigated  burden.  I  cannot  imagine 
a  more  miserable  position  than  that  of  the  poor 
scribbler  who  allowed  his  acquaintances  to  con- 
gratulate him  as  the  writer  of  George  Eliot's 
early  stories.  To  have  the  name  of  great  wis- 
dom, and  at  the  same  time  to  be  a  very  foolish 
person,  is  to  walk  through  the  world  in  a  suit 
of  armor  so  much  too  big  and  too  heavy  for 
you  that  it  makes  every  step  a  painful  effort. 
To  have  a  fine  reputation  and  a  mean  character 
is  to  live  a  lie  and  die  a  sham.  And  this  is  the 
danger  to  which  every  one  who  seeks  directly 
and  primarily  for  fame  is  exposed. 
One  thing  is  certain  in  regard  to  fame :  for  most 
26 


Wt)t  f^aten  of  Worft 

of  us  it  will  be  very  brief  in  itself;  for  all  of  us 
it  will  be  transient  in  our  enjoyment  of  it. 
When  death  has  dropped  the  curtain  we  shall 
hear  no  more  applause.  And  though  we  fondly 
dream  that  it  will  continue  after  we  have  left 
the  stage,  we  do  not  realize  how  quickly  it  will 
die  away  in  silence,  while  the  audience  turns  to 
look  at  the  new  actor  and  the  next  scene.  Our 
position  in  society  will  be  filled  as  soon  as  it  is 
vacated,  and  our  name  remembered  only  for  a 
moment, — except,  please  God,  by  a  few  who 
have  learned  to  love  us,  not  because  of  fame, 
but  because  we  have  helped  them  and  done 
them  some  good. 

This  thought  brings  us,  you  see,  within  clear 
sight  of  the  fourth  practical  aim  in  life,— the 
one  end  that  is  really  worth  working  for,— 
usefulness.  To  desire  and  strive  to  be  of  some 
service  to  the  world,  to  aim  at  doing  something 
which  shall  really  increase  the  happiness  and 
welfare  and  virtue  of  mankind, — this  is  achoice 
which  is  possible  for  all  of  us ;  and  surely  it  is 
a  good  haven  to  sail  for. 
The  more  we  think  of  it,  the  more  attractive 
and  desirable  it  becomes.  To  do  some  work 
that  is  needed,  and  to  do  it  thoroughly  well; 
to  make  our  toil  count  for  something  in  adding 
to  the  sum  total  of  what  is  actually  profitable 
for  humanity ;  to  make  two  blades  of  grass  grow 
where  one  grew  before,  or,  better  still,  to  make 
one  wholesome  idea  take  root  in  a  mind  that 
was  bare  and  fallow;  to  make  our  example 

27 


strips  an*  patens 

count  for  something  on  the  side  of  honesty, 
and  cheerfulness,  and  courage,  and  good  faith, 
and  love, — this  is  an  aim  for  life  which  is  very 
wide,  as  wide  as  the  world,  and  yet  very  defi- 
nite, as  clear  as  light.  It  is  not  in  the  least 
vague.  It  is  only  free ;  it  has  the  power  to  em- 
body itself  in  a  thousand  forms  without  chan- 
ging its  character.  Those  who  seek  it  know  what 
it  means,  however  it  may  be  expressed.  It  is 
real  and  genuine  and  satisfying.  There  is  noth- 
ing beyond  it,  because  there  can  be  no  higher 
practical  result  of  effort.  It  is  the  translation, 
through  many  languages,  of  the  true,  divine 
purpose  of  all  the  work  and  labor  that  is  done 
beneath  the  sun,  into  one  final,  universal  word. 
It  is  the  active  consciousness  of  personal  har- 
mony with  the  will  of  God  who  worketh  hith- 
erto. 

To  have  this  for  the  chief  aim  in  life  ennobles 
and  dignifies  all  that  it  touches.  Wealth  that 
comes  as  the  reward  of  usefulness  can  be  ac- 
cepted with  honor;  and,  consecrated  to  further 
usefulness,  it  becomes  royal.  Fame  that  comes 
from  noble  service,  the  gratitude  of  men,  be 
they  few  or  many,  to  one  who  has  done  them 
good,  is  true  glory;  and  the  influence  that  it 
brings  is  as  near  to  godlike  power  as  anything 
that  man  can  attain.  But  whether  these  tem- 
poral rewards  are  bestowed  upon  us  or  not, 
the  real  desire  of  the  soul  is  satisfied  just  in 
being  useful.  The  pleasantest  word  that  a  man 
can  hear  at  the  close  of  the  day,  whispered  in 
28 


tEIje  fatten  of  Work 

secret  to  his  soul,  is  "Well  done,  good  and 
faithful  servant!" 

Christ  tells  us  this:  "He  that  loseth  his  life 
shall  find  it."  "Whosoever  will  be  great  among 
you,  let  him  be  your  minister;  and  whosoever 
will  be  chief  among  you,  let  him  be  your  ser- 
vant." 

Life  is  divine  when  duty  is  a  joy. 
Do  we  accept  these  sailing  orders?  Is  it  really 
the  desired  haven  of  all  our  activity  to  do  some 
good  in  the  world ;  to  carry  our  share  of  the 
great  world's  burden  which  must  be  borne,  to 
bring  our  lading  of  treasure,  be  it  small  or  great, 
safely  into  the  port  of  usefulness?  I  wonder 
how  many  of  us  have  faced  the  question  and 
settled  it.  It  goes  very  deep. 


29 


g>i)ip0  an*  Havens 

IV.  THE  HAVEN  OF  CHARACTER,  ff 

BUT  deeper  still  the  question  goes  when 
we  look  at  it  in  another  light.  Our  life 
is  made  up,  not  of  actions  alone,  but 
of  thoughts  and  feelings  and  habitual  affec- 
tions. These  taken  all  together  constitute  what 
we  call  our  present  character.  In  their  tenden- 
cies and  impulses  and  dominant  desires  they 
constitute  our  future  character,  towards  which 
we  are  moving  as  a  ship  to  her  haven. 
What  is  it,  then,  for  you  and  me,  this  intimate 
ideal,  this  distant  self,  this  hidden  form  of  per- 
sonality which  is  our  goal? 
I  am  sure  that  we  do  not  often  enough  put  the 
problem  clearly  before  us  in  this  shape.  We  all 
dream  of  the  future,  especially  when  we  are 
young. 

A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long 
thoughts. 

But  our  dreams  are  too  much  like  the  modern 
stage,  full  of  elaborate  scenery  and  machinery, 
crowded  with  startling  effects  and  brilliant 
costumes  and  magical  transformations,  but 
strangely  vacant  of  all  real  character. 
The  stuff  of  which  our  day-dreams  are  made 
is  for  the  most  part  of  very  cheap  material. 
We  seldom  weave  into  them  the  threads  of 
our  inmost  spiritual  life.  We  build  castles  in 
Spain,  and  forecast  adventures  in  Bohemia. 
But  the  castle  is  without  a  real  master.  The 
hero  of  the  adventure  is  vague  and  misty.  We 
30 


Cf)efta*enofCJ)aracter 

do  not  clearly  recognize  his  face,  or  know  what 
is  in  his  heart. 

We  picture  ourselves  as  living  here  or  there; 
we  imagine  ourselves  as  members  of  a  certain 
circle  of  society,  taking  our  places  among  the 
rich,  the  powerful,  the  "smart  set."  We  fancy 
ourselves  going  through  the  various  experi- 
ences of  life,  a  fortunate  marriage,  a  successful 
business  career,  a  literary  triumph,  a  political 
victory.  Or  perhaps,  if  our  imagination  is  of  a 
more  sombre  type,  we  foreshadow  ourselves 
in  circumstances  of  defeat  and  disappointment 
and  adversity.  But  in  all  these  reveries  we  do 
not  really  think  deeply  of  our  Selves.  We  do 
not  stay  to  ask  what  manner  of  men  and  wo- 
man we  shall  be,  when  we  are  living  here  or 
there,  or  doing  thus  or  so. 
Yet  it  is  an  important  question.  Very  much 
more  important,  in  fact,  than  the  thousand  and 
one  trifling  interrogatories  about  the  future 
with  which  we  amuse  our  idle  hours. 
And  the  strange  thing  is,  that,  though  our 
ideal  of  future  character  is  so  often  hidden  from 
us,  overlooked,  forgotten,  it  is  always  there, 
and  always  potently,  though  unconsciously, 
shaping  our  course  in  life.  "Every  one,"  says 
Cervantes,  "  is  the  son  of  his  own  works."  But 
his  works  do  not  come  out  of  the  air,  by  chance. 
They  are  wrought  out  in  a  secret,  instinctive 
harmony  with  a  conception  of  character  which 
we  inwardly  acknowledge  as  possible  and 
likely  for  us. 

31 


#lnp0  anii  f^at)rn0 

When  we  choose  between  two  lines  of  conduct, 
between  a  mean  action  and  a  noble  one,  we 
choose  also  between  two  persons,  both  bear- 
ing our  name,  the  one  representing  what  is 
best  in  us,  the  other  embodying  what  is  worst. 
When  we  vacillate  and  alternate  between  them, 
we  veer,  as  the  man  in  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son's story  veered,  between  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde. 

We  say  that  we  "make  up  our  minds,"  to  do 
a  certain  thing  or  not  to  do  it,  to  resist  a  cer- 
tain temptation  or  to  yield  to  it.  It  is  true.  We 
"make  up  our  minds"  in  a  deeper  sense  than 
we  remember.  In  every  case  the  ultimate  de- 
cision is  between  two  future  selves,  one  with 
whom  the  virtue  is  harmonious,  another  with 
whom  the  vice  is  consistent.  To  one  of  these 
two  figures,  dimly  concealed  behind  the  action, 
we  move  forward.  What  we  forget  is,  that, 
when  the  forward  step  is  taken,  the  shadow 
will  be  myself.  Character  is  eternal  destiny. 
There  is  a  profound  remark  in  George  Eliot's 
"Middlemarch"  which  throws  light  far  down 
into  the  abyss  of  many  a  lost  life.  "We  are  on 
a  perilous  margin  when  we  begin  to  look  pas- 
sively at  our  future  selves,  and  see  our  own 
figures  led  with  dull  consent  into  insipid  mis- 
doing and  shabby  achievement."  But  there  is 
a  brighter  side  to  this  same  truth  of  life  phi- 
losophy. We  are  on  a  path  which  leads  upward, 
by  sure  and  steady  steps,  when  we  begin  to 
look  at  our  future  selves  with  eyes  of  noble 
32 


hope  and  clear  purpose,  and  see  our  figures 
climbing,  with  patient,  dauntless  effort,  towards 
the  heights  of  true  manhood  and  womanhood. 
Visions  like  these  are  Joseph's  dreams.  They 
are  stars  for  guidance.  They  are  sheaves  of 
promise.  The  very  memory  of  them,  if  we  cher- 
ish it,  is  a  power  of  pure  restraint  and  gener- 
ous inspiration. 

Oh  for  a  new  generation  of  day-dreamers, 
young  men  and  maidens  who  shall  behold  vis- 
ions, idealists  who  shall  see  themselves  as  the 
heroes  of  coming  conflicts,  the  heroines  of  yet 
unwritten  epics  of  triumphant  compassion  and 
stainless  love.  From  their  hearts  shall  spring 
the  renaissance  of  faith  and  hope.  The  ancient 
charm  of  true  romance  shall  flow  forth  again 
to  glorify  the  world  in  the  brightness  of  their 
ardent  eyes, — 

The  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream. 
As  they  go  out  from  the  fair  gardens  of  a  vis- 
ionary youth  into  the  wide,  confused,  turbulent 
field  of  life,  they  will  bring  with  them  the  march- 
ing music  of  a  high  resolve.  They  will  strive 
to  fulfil  the  fine  prophecy  of  their  own  best  de- 
sires. They  will  not  ask  whether  life  is  worth 
living, — they  will  make  it  so.  They  will  trans- 
form the  sordid  "struggle  for  existence"  into 
a  glorious  effort  to  become  that  which  they 
have  admired  and  loved. 
But  such  a  new  generation  is  possible  only 
through  the  regenerating  power  of  the  truth 

33 


|)ip0  anii  batons 

that  "a  man's  life  consisteth  not  in  the  abun- 
dance of  the  things  that  he  possesseth."  We 
must  learn  to  recognize  the  real  realities,  and 
to  hold  them  far  above  the  perishing  trappings 
of  existence  which  men  call  real. 
The  glory  of  our  life  below 
Comes  not  from  what  we  do  or  what  we  know, 
But  dwells  forevermore  in  what  we  are. 
"He  only  is  advancing  in  life,"  says  John  Rus- 
kin,  "whose  heart  is  getting  softer,  whose  blood 
warmer,  whose  brain  quicker,  whose  spirit  is 
entering  into  Living  peace.  And  the  men  who 
have  this  life  in  them  are  the  true  lords  or 
kings  of  the  earth — they,  and  they  only." 
Now  I  think  you  can  see  what  is  meant  by  this 
question  of  the  desired  haven  in  character. 
What  manner  of  men  and  women  do  we  truly 
hope  and  wish  to  become? 
The  number  of  ideals  seems  infinite.  But,  after 
all,  there  are  only  two  great  types.  St.  Paul 
calls  them  "the  carnal"  and  "the  spiritual;" 
and  I  know  of  no  better  names. 
The  carnal  type  of  character,  weak  or  strong, 
clever  or  stupid,  is  always  self-ruled,  governed 
by  its  own  appetites  and  passions,  seeking  its 
own  ends,  and,  even  when  conformed  to  some 
outward  law  or  code  of  honor,  obedient  only 
because  it  finds  its  own  advantage  or  comfort 
therein.  There  is  many  a  man  who  stands  up- 
right only  because  the  pressure  of  the  crowd 
makes  it  inconvenient  for  him  to  stoop.  "The 
churl  in  spirit"  may  speak  fair  words  because 
34 


of  those  who  hear;  but  in  his  heart  he  says  the 
thing  that  pleases  him,  which  is  vile. 
The  spiritual  type  of  character  is  divinely  ruled, 
submissive  to  a  higher  law,  doing  another  will 
than  its  own,  seeking  the  ends  of  virtue  and 
holiness  and  unselfish  love.  It  may  have  many 
inward  struggles,  many  defeats,  many  bitter 
renunciations  and  regrets.  It  may  appear  far 
less  peaceful,  orderly,  self-satisfied,  than  some 
of  those  who  are  secretly  following  the  other 
ideal.  Many  a  saint  in  the  making  seems  to  be 
marred  by  faults  and  conflicts  from  which  the 
smug,  careful,  reputable  sensualist  is  exempt. 
The  difference  between  the  two  is  not  one  of 
position.  It  is  one  of  direction.  The  one,  how- 
ever high  he  stands,  is  moving  down.  The 
other,  however  low  he  starts,  is  moving  up. 
We  all  know  who  it  is  that  stands  at  the  very 
summit  of  the  spiritual  path  way, — Jesus  Christ, 
the  Son  of  God,  who  became  a  perfect  man, 
leaving  us  an  example  that  we  should  follow 
in  his  steps.  We  know,  too,  the  steps  in  which 
he  trod, — obedience,  devotion,  purity,  truthful- 
ness, kindness,  resistance  of  temptation,  self- 
sacrifice.  And  we  know  the  result  of  following 
him,  until  we  come,  in  the  unity  of  the  faith  and 
of  the  knowledge  of  the  Son  of  God,  unto  a 
perfect  manhood,  unto  the  measure  of  the 
stature  of  the  fulness  of  Christ. 
Which  type  of  character  do  we  honestly  desire 
and  expect  to  reach?  Let  us  not  indulge  in  any 
delusions  about  it.  Just  as  surely  as  our  faces 

35 


jnp0  an*  Havens 

are  hardening  into  a  certain  expression,  ugly 
or  pleasant,  and  our  bodies  are  moving  towards 
a  certain  condition  of  health,  sound  or  diseased, 
so  surely  are  our  souls  moving  towards  a  cer- 
tain type  of  character.  Along  which  line  are  we 
looking  and  steering?  Along  the  line  that  leads 
to  an  older,  grayer,  stiffer  likeness  of  our  pre- 
sent selves,  with  all  our  selfishness  and  pride 
and  impurity  and  inconsistency  and  discontent 
confirmed  and  hardened?  Or  the  line  that  ends 
in  likeness  to  Christ? 

Surely  we  are  voyaging  blindly  unless  we  know 
what  haven  of  character  our  souls  are  seek- 
ing. Surely  we  are  making  a  mad  and  base  and 
fatal  choice,  unless  we  direct  our  course  to  the 
highest  and  the  noblest  goal.  To  know  Christ 
is  life  eternal.  To  become  like  Christ  is  success 
everlasting. 


36 


V.  THE  LAST  PORT.f  «$■  $  f  f  f  f  $  ff 

J  HERE  is  still  one  more  way  of  putting 
this  question  about  our  desired  haven, 

^-^ a  way  perhaps  more  common  than 

the  others,  and  therefore  probably  more  nat- 
ural, though  I  cannot  believe  that  it  is  more 
important.  It  is,  in  fact,  simply  a  carrying  on 
of  the  first  two  questions  beyond  the  horizon 
of  mortal  sight,  a  prolongation  of  the  voyage 
of  life  upon  the  ocean  of  eternity. 
Almost  all  of  us  have  an  expectation,  however 
dim  and  misty,  of  an  existence  of  some  kind 
after  we  have  crossed  the  bar  of  death.  Even 
those  who  do  not  believe  that  this  existence 
will  be  conscious,  those  who  suppose  that  death 
ends  all,  so  far  as  our  thought  and  feeling  are 
concerned,  and  that  the  soul  goes  out  when 
the  heart  stops, — even  the  doubters  of  immor- 
tality foresee  a  certain  kind  of  a  haven  for  their 
lives  in  the  deep,  dreamless,  endless  sleep  of 
oblivion.  There  is  no  one  now  living  who  does 
not  owe  a  clear  and  definite  answer  to  the 
question:  Where  do  you  wish  and  expect  to 
go  when  you  die? 

Now,  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  have  no  right 
to  try  to  separate  this  question  of  our  haven 
after  death  from  the  questions  in  regard  to  our 
present  aspirations  and  efforts  in  conduct  and 
character.  For  every  one  who  considers  it  so- 
berly must  see  that  our  future  destiny  cannot 
possibly  be  anything  else  than  the  reward  and 
consequence  of  our  present  life.  Whether  it  be 

37 


g>j)ip0  anb  Havens 

a  state  of  spiritual  blessedness,  or  an  experi- 
ence of  spiritual  woe,  or  simply  a  blank  ex- 
tinction, it  will  come  as  the  result  of  the  deeds 
done  in  the  body.  It  will  be  the  fitting  and  in- 
evitable arrival  at  agoal  towardswhichwehave 
been  moving  in  all  our  actions,  and  for  which 
we  have  been  preparing  ourselves  by  all  the  se- 
cret affections  and  hopes  and  beliefs  which  we 
are  daily  working  into  our  characters. 
But  there  is  a  reason,  after  all,  and  a  very  pro- 
found reason,  why  we  should  sometimes  put 
this  question  of  our  desired  haven  after  death 
in  a  distinct  form,  and  why  we  should  try  to 
give  a  true  and  honest  answer  to  it,  with  an 
outlook  that  goes  beyond  the  grave. 
It  is  because  the  answer  will  certainly  deter- 
mine our  conduct  now,  and  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that  it  will  affect  the  result 
hereafter. 

Men  say  that  the  future  life  is  only  a  possibility, 
or  at  best  a  probability,  and  that  it  is  foolish 
to  waste  our  present  existence  in  the  consid- 
eration of  problems  to  which  the  only  answer 
must  be  a  "perhaps,"  or  "I  hope  so,"  or  "  I  be- 
lieve so."  But  is  it  not  one  of  the  very  condi- 
tions of  our  advance,  even  in  this  world,  that 
we  should  be  forever  going  forward  along  lines 
which  lie  altogether  in  the  region  of  the  prob- 
able, and  for  which  we  have  no  better  security 
than  our  own  expectation  and  wish  that  they 
shall  lead  us  to  the  truth,  anticipated,  but  as 
yet  unproved  and  really  unknown? 
38 


"So  far  as  man  stands  for  anything,"  writes 
Professor  William  James,  the  psychologist, 
in  his  latest  book,  "The  Will  to  Believe,"  "and 
is  productive  or  originative  at  all,  his  entire 
vital  function  may  be  said  to  have  to  deal  with 
maybes.  Not  a  victory  is  gained,  not  a  deed  of 
faithfulness  or  courage  is  done,  except  upon  a 
maybe;  not  a  service,  not  a  sally  of  generosity, 
not  a  scientific  exploration  or  experiment  or 
text-book,  that  may  not  be  a  mistake.  It  is 
only  by  risking  our  persons  from  one  hour  to 
another  that  we  live  at  all.  And  often  enough 
our  faith  beforehand  in  an  uncertified  result 
is  the  only  thing  that  makes  the  result  come 

true." 

Surely  this  is  certain  enough  in  regard  to  the 
difference  between  this  present  life  as  a  dull 
and  dismal  struggle  for  the  meat  and  drink 
that  are  necessary  for  an  animal  existence, 
and  as  a  noble  and  beautiful  conflict  for  moral 
and  spiritual  ends.  It  is  the  faith  that  makes 
the  result  come  true.  As  a  man  thinketh  in  his 
heart,  so  is  he,  and  so  is  his  world.  For  those 
whose  thoughts  are  earthly  and  sensual,  this 
is  a  beast's  world.  For  those  whose  thoughts 
are  high  and  noble  and  heroic,  it  is  a  hero's 
world.  The  strength  of  wishes  transforms  the 
very  stuff  of  our  existence,  and  moulds  it  to  the 
form  of  our  heart's  inmost  desire  and  hope. 
Why  should  it  not  be  true  in  the  world  to  come? 
Why  should  not  the  eternal  result,  as  well  as 
the  present  course,  of  our  voyaging  depend 

39 


is>|nps  anii  f|atan0 

upon  our  own  choice  of  a  haven  beyond  the 
grave?  Christ  says  that  it  does.  "Seek  ye  first 
the  kingdom  of  God."  "Lay  not  up  for  your- 
selves treasures  upon  earth,  but  lay  up  for 
yourselves  treasures  in  heaven." 
If  the  immortal  life  is  a  reality,  is  it  not  reason- 
able to  think  that  the  first  condition  of  our  at- 
taining it  is  that  we  should  personally  wish  for 
it,  and  strive  to  enter  into  it?  And  must  not  our 
neglect  or  refusal  to  do  this  be  the  one  thing 
that  will  inevitably  shut  us  out  from  it,  and 
make  our  eternity  an  outer  darkness? 
Mark  you,  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  reasonable  to 
suppose  that  we  must  be  absolutely  certain  of 
the  reality  of  heaven  in  order  to  arrive  thither. 
We  may  have  many  doubts  and  misgivings. 
But  deep  down  in  our  hearts  there  must  be 
the  wish  to  prove  the  truth  of  this  great  hope 
of  an  endless  life  with  God,  and  the  definite 
resolve  to  make  this  happy  haven  the  end  of 
all  our  voyaging. 

This  is  what  the  apostle  means  by  "the  power 
of  an  endless  life."  The  passion  of  immortality 
is  the  thing  that  immortalizes  our  being.  To 
be  in  love  with  heaven  is  the  surest  way  to  be 
fitted  for  it.  Desire  is  the  magnetic  force  of 
character.  Character  is  the  compass  of  life. 
"He  that  hath  this  hope  in  him  purifieth  him- 
self." 

Let  me,  then,  put  this  question  to  you  very 
simply  and  earnestly  and  personally. 
What  is  your  desired  haven  beyond  the  grave? 
40 


Wi)t  3Last  $ort$m 

It  is  for  you  to  choose.  There  are  no  secret 
books  of  fate  in  which  your  course  is  traced, 
and  your  destiny  irrevocably  appointed.  There 
is  only  the  Lamb's  book  of  life,  in  which  new 
names  are  being  written  every  day,  as  new 
hearts  turn  from  darkness  to  light,  and  from 
the  kingdom  of  Satan  to  the  kingdom  of  God. 
No  ship  that  sails  the  sea  is  as  free  to  make 
for  her  port  as  you  are  to  seek  the  haven  that 
your  inmost  soul  desires.  And  if  your  choice  is 
right,  and  if  your  desire  is  real,  so  that  you  will 
steer  and  strive  with  God's  help  to  reach  the 
goal,  you  shall  never  be  wrecked  or  lost. 
For  of  every  soul  that  seeks  to  arrive  at  use- 
fulness, which  is  the  service  of  Christ,  and  at 
holiness,  which  is  the  likeness  of  Christ,  and 
at  heaven,  which  is  the  eternal  presence  of 
Christ,  it  is  written: — 

So  he  bringeth  them  unto  their  desired  haven. 
Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 
Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 
Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 
Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 
Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 
And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 
And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink 
As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 
Ah !  it  is  not  the  sea, 
It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 
But  ourselves 
That  rock  and  rise 
With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

41 


§>jnp0  anfc  Havens 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah!  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear. 

LONGFELLOW, 


42 


SEP     6 


ia22 


'A  -x? 


,4 


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